Enterprise Day Shift
by nescio
Summary: This Ep takes place some time after Horizon, the latest episode to air in the UK. The crew has become cynical and jaded after so long into their exploratory mission, and one day blurs into another.


Synopsis: This Ep takes place some time after _Horizon_, the latest episode to air in the UK. The crew has become cynical and disillusioned after so long into their exploratory mission, and one day blurs into another.   
  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters nor did I create them. I didn't make any money from this fan fiction. Did I even write it? It wrote itself...  
  
Further Disclaimer: This piece is intended soley as a new diversion on the usual upbeat tone of _Enterprise_ no malice is intended! In fact I have not missed an episode of _Enterprise_ , it is the best sci-fi being broadcast right now with the exceptions of _La Femme Nikita_ and the brilliant _Garth Marenghi's Dark Place_.   
  
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"Take two paracetamol" slurred Doctor Phlox from the darkened lab, keeping his back to the young Ensign. It was usually too much to ask that Mayweather keep out of his sickbay for a whole week, and sure enough here he was again, turning up like a bad half-latinum piece. Was it day-shift so soon? Phlox hadn't asked what the problem was, he just wanted to get rid of Travis as quickly as possible.  
  
"Yes docto - excuse me?" exclaimed Travis, his wide, toothy smile faltering. Hastily clearing his throat, and rubbing his face to clear his head, the Doctor spun around, adopting a rictus grin to mask his imbibed state. Spots of light danced in his vision as he turned, but Phlox quickly focussed on the Ensign's dreary purple overalls. "I mean to say, I'll just inject you with a mild analgesic". Thinking ahead to the certain, nightmarish hangover, and not wishing to be further disturbed, Phlox added, "and I recommend that you rest in your quarters for the next 24 hours - just to be safe, hmm!" He loaded the Pez-10000 analgesic dispenser, and with trembling hands administered to Mayweather.   
  
"Thanks doc!" , sang out Travis merrily, as he bounced out of sickbay. "I'm needed on the Bridge!". "Idiot boy", muttered Phlox, his face falling the instant the sickbay doors sealed hermetically shut. He dimmed the lights and collapsed on one of the berths, bowing to the inevitable.  
  
T'Pol woke with a start. The heavy tome of Vulcan teachings she had been reading the night before had just slid off the bed with a loud bang. Her doe eyes glanced across the darkened room at her display monitors, which she never deactivated; ceaseless streams of information were cascaded, collated, discarded and replaced. The only static area of the screen was a small box off to the top left, her shift-cycle warning blinked on and off with insistent brightness. Time to wake up.  
  
The Sub Commander raised an eyebrow; there was very little time to perform her usual morning beautification. Not that these humans would know the difference. Despite T'pol's androgynous face, haircut and boyish body, not one suspected 'she' was male. The subcommander downed her last few sedatives, lifted from the sickbay when the ship's Doctor was indisposed, and set about applying copious layers of translucent lipgloss.   
  
While the sedatives kicked in, T'Pol checked her vacant expression in the unadorned mirror, and changed into her chest enhanced catsuit. She had a modest wardrobe of traditional Vulcan robes, all of Byzantine finery, but on Enterprise T'Pol felt drawn to the greyish, skintight catsuit every morning since she joined the crew. She clasped her hands behind her as she made her way to the turbolifts, giving an unobstructed view of her chest to the young crewmen already at the queues. She noticed several females giving her catty glances of disdain, and pretended to ignore them. The Captain was expecting her in the Ready Room.  
  
The day crew were by now waking in their quarters and readying themselves to relieve the night-shifters, or the "Living Dead" as the Captain remarked to T'Pol, watching the changeover logs updating on his expensive, flat panel display. In the Captain's ready room, the remnants of his hastily eaten continental breakfast vied for space with the palm pilot night shift reports he had yet to read.  
  
"Living Dead?" ventured the buxom Subcommander, with the subtle upturn of an eyebrow. She instantly wished she hadn't, and winced in advance of the Captain's speech.  
  
Rising, and for some reason turning to look out of his view-port instead of the person he was addressing, Archer took a deep breath. "The... _Living Dead_ were a phenomenon of 20th Century horror cinema. The... _Con - cept_ was that the dead would wake from their eternal sleep, to stalk the living!" he heartily bellowed in his unique and extraordinarily loud style of explanation.  
  
Waiting politely for the Captain's oration to grind to a halt, T'pol gathered the palm pilots together and said "I'm needed on the Bridge". The effort was lost however; as the captain was still at the viewport, his lined face smiling at nothing, hands held behind his back and bouncing slightly on his heels. Fearing a fresh tirade, T'Pol left hurriedly for the corridor.  
  
Elsewhere within the ship, Malcolm was dressing with a slight panic. The Englishman had never been late to start a shift before, and was jolly well not going to be late today. "Terence!" he exclaimed, gently shaking his bunkmate - although high ranking officers could have quarters to themselves, Malcolm had opted to share like the rest of the crew. "Terence, have you seen my rouge? Is it _too_ much to ask that you clean up once in a while?" Rummaging through the clutter of the cramped quarters, Malcolm gave up in exasperation and made his way to the turbo-lifts. Terence was becoming much too messy...  
  
The Turbolift doors slid open with a slight hum and Malcolm strode out of the cylinder to the spacious Bridge. He had hoped to arrive early and be the first to greet T'Pol, but he was out of luck today; most of the crew had already arrived. The Captain and Mayweather were exchanging pleasantries up front near the Big Screen. Hoshi was ignoring both with an expression of placid boredom. The view from all sides was silver steel panels and plastiglass under hard white lights. The Lieutenant's ears filled with the incessant low hum of high voltage electrics, syncopated with the constant hiss of regulated atmospherics. The scene left an sterile and metallic taste in his throat. Nauseated, Malcolm gagged inwardly. His head throbbed for coffee.  
  
His hungry eyes scanned the room; the Vulcan was already seated at her post, absorbed in her pile of palm pilots. How lovely her face, when illuminated by the glow of their tiny screens! But the opportunity was gone, and now there was work to be done. Addressing no one, everyone, Malcolm issued a stiff "Good Morning" and walked to his tactical station. Punching in his security clearance, Malcolm couldn't help stealing another glance at the subcommander. "I wonder what she's thinking right now?", he murmured quietly to himself, barely parting his lips.  
  
With another cursory scroll of the page she was reading, T'Pol fought to keep her appearance impassive. Her body was becoming too used to sedation. Soon she would need a more powerful 'nasal inhibitor'; the sub-commander realised with certainty that she would be painfully conscious for the entire shift . Boredom enveloped her and she wilted in her chair, her thin limp limbs at odd angles to her body. Everyone waited for the Captain to say something.  
  
"Ahead! " cried Archer. "Warp 5!"  
  
The imperceptible whine of the warp engines was the only impression of the tremendous power coursing through the engine and nacelles of the Enterprise. No one had the heart to ask where they were going...   



End file.
